Gore Vidal said there are two things in life you should never turn
down: the opportunity to have sex and the chance to appear on
television. Consequently, when a researcher from the Beeb called and
asked whether I’d like to be interviewed by Joan Bakewell for her
forthcoming series, I immediately said yes. Apart from everything
else, it would give me a chance to meet the thinking man’s crumpet in
the flesh. It was only later, when I had time for reflection, that I
thought this might have been a bit rash. You see, the subject she
wanted to talk to me about was pornography.

I wrote about my interest in porn for The Spectator not long ago but
Boris thought the article was ‘a bit racy’ for Speccie readers. It was
about the trauma of having to part with my collection of X-rated
videos when I moved back to London from New York last year. To be fair
to Boris, he told me later that he thought he’d made the wrong
decision but by that time it was too late — I’d already flogged the
piece to GQ. (If anyone would like to see it, you can contact me at
(spam-protected) and I’ll email you a copy.) Anyway, this article
was read by one of Joan Bakewell’s minions and that’s why I got the
call.

I realised I’d made a terrible mistake when the researcher rang back
and asked if I’d be prepared to play Joan Bakewell one of my
‘favourite tapes’ on camera. Certainly not, I told him. In any case,
I’d left all my tapes in New York. Nevertheless, any hopes I had of
passing myself as a disinterested journalist were dashed. Clearly, I
was being interviewed in my capacity as a ‘user’, not an impartial
observer. I suddenly got paranoid about how they were going to bill me
when my bald head first appeared on screen. ‘Toby Young, pornography
addict’? ‘Toby Young, compulsive masturbator’? ‘Toby “Wanker” Young’?
Unfortunately, it was too late to back out now.

‘So, Toby,’ Bakewell began, when the cameras started rolling, ‘when
did you first develop your lifelong passion for pornography?’

I was stymied. My plan had been to appear as smooth and debonair as
possible in the hope of seeming completely unembarrassed. It was being
filmed at my bedsit in Shepherd’s Bush and I had a copy of Philip
Larkin’s letters at my feet, ready to flick to his dispatch to Robert
Conquest in which he talks about his visit to a Soho sex shop. ‘You
see, Joan. Plenty of respectable people like porn.’ However, I
immediately flushed crimson.

‘Er, well, er, I’m not sure, er . . . .’

‘I have to say, Toby, I just can’t see the point of it,’ Bakewell
continued. ‘To me, it’s just like watching little bits of gristle. Why
d’you find it so . . . compelling?’

As I struggled to answer this, I could see the cameraman darting about
in front of me, getting the close-ups he’d been instructed to get by
the director: quivering lower lip, shaking hands, rapidly blinking
eyes. This was turning into a nightmare.

‘C-c-c-could I please have a glass of water?’ I stammered. ‘My mouth’s
suddenly gone dry.’

The whole experience was like being interviewed about pornography by
my Mum. Indeed, Joan Bakewell was actually a contemporary of my
mother’s at Cambridge. It wasn’t her intention to embarrass me — she
seemed genuinely puzzled by what an obviously intelligent chap like me
saw in this filth — but I felt exactly like I did when my Mum
discovered a pile of Playboys under my bed when I was aged 14.

The low point came during a discussion about who pornography is for.

Joan: ‘I gather from talking to pornographers that these films are
very popular with modern couples. Apparently, after they’ve put the
kids to bed, they open a bottle of Chardonnay, sit down on the sofa
and watch one of these tapes together.’

Me: ‘That’s all bullshit, Joan. The fact is, the main market for porn
is sad, lonely, loveless men, men who can’t get women.’

Joan: ‘Is that you, Toby?’

Me (Spluttering): ‘Er, no, no, of course not. I mean, not any more.
I’m about to get married. My interest in pornography was just a
phase.’

Joan: ‘A phase? Come on.’

At this point, the cameraman swivelled round to get a close-up of my
television and the videotapes scattered in front of it on the floor,
before swinging back to get a shot of me sitting on my sofa looking
shifty.

Me: ‘No, really.’ (Pause.) ‘A 20-year phase.’

After this ordeal, I can say with some confidence that there is an
exception to Gore Vidal’s rule. Have as much sex as you like and
appear on television as often as you can, but for God’s sake don’t
agree to talk about anything of a sexual nature on television,
particularly with someone who reminds you of your Mum. Sorry, Joan.
But it’s difficult to appear like a thinking man when you’re talking
about crumpet.